January 3rd, 1891 - Whizzhard Books

Sometimes he did things for Mr. Picardy that were cool, like follow known werewolves around and take notes on their doings. Sometimes he did things for Mr. Picardy that were intellectually stimulating, like comb through texts on werewolves and find the interesting sections for Picardy's research. And sometimes he did things for Mr. Picardy that felt pointless, like pick up books for him because the housekeeper did not have time to do it.

Usually, Peregrine actually liked his job. He was still mad about going straight, but this was the most interesting version of going straight that (in his opinion) any of the Umbernauld siblings had managed. His job was interesting, he got to learn things, the pay was not terrible, and he mostly did not have to interact with any of the masses. All of this was a priority for Peregrine. But today he was a little annoyed, even before he had finished his walk to the bookstore from the Picardy household.

He stepped inside Whizzhard and sighed.

"I'm here to pick up an order for Mr. Emerett Picardy," Peregrine called as soon as the bookstore door swung shut, without really bothering to identify actual employees versus any potential loitering customers. (Another perk of working for Picardy - Peregrine did not have to spend any real time on trying to be polite.)

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@"Juliana Binns" Reuben Crouch

  

Jules had heard through the grapevine that today was "Professor" Emerett Picardy's birthday, and she had spent the entire morning penning a particularly vitriolic letter to the editor of the Daily Prophet discussing his 'accomplishments' at the half-century mark of his life. She had actually come here to try and solicit Zach's advice on whether or not it was too much, since he was the only one who could advise her on such a matter. She didn't know whether the paper would even print her letter, but assuming they did, she was conflicted about whether or not it was the right thing to do. She desperately wanted to belittle his research (and he made it so easy to do!) but also didn't want to draw any additional attention to his work or, stars forbid, entice anyone to buy more of his nonsensical books. She was also not entirely sure about the reference to his wife. She did think that what she had written was factual — it was, in her view, undoubtedly Picardy's fault that his wife was dead — but it was also very unkind, and perhaps unnecessary.

All of which was to say, she had Picardy very much on the brain that day already, and so alerted immediately when the young man who flounced into the shop declared he was here to pick up an order for the man. She was gratified, at least, that he didn't say Professor Emerett Picardy — the title was absolutely ridiculous given that he conducted no serious research whatsoever and could, at best, be described as a bigoted armchair psuedoscientist.

"Picardy?" she said, feigning ignorance. "Why does that name sound familiar, I wonder?"

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   Cassius Lestrange

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

Picardy was rich and somewhat noteworthy but he still hadn't crossed into fame in many circles, and so Peregrine supposed that he ought not be surprised to be asked. He wasn't happy about it, though - he'd hoped to somehow get in and out of the bookstore in about forty five seconds.

"He's the scholar who writes on werewolves," Peregrine said in a tone that borderlined on bored, on the off chance that the woman could be helpful to his quest for Picardy's books. He could get away with light impoliteness, but forgoing small talk and niceties entirely was still reserved to the extremely rich and eccentric. Even Picardy himself couldn't get away with it sometimes.

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"Oh!" Juliana said, as though she had just made the connection. In reality, she was feeling a little mischievous as she continued: "The one who made the news this spring with all the research collected from years of interviews? That scholar?"

She was hoping the question needled him, which was perhaps a little unfair, since she didn't even know who this person was. Someone connected to Picardy, evidently, if he was here to collect book orders for him, but that explained very little. She knew Picardy had a son but thought he was significantly younger than this gentleman was — probably a servant, then. Maybe a butler or just generic kitchen help. Either way, it was not very gallant of her to annoy him for the sins of his master... but, well, she was going to, anyway. Maybe she could get her fill of pettiness in and refrain from sending in the letter to the Prophet.

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

"No, he's not the crazy one," Peregrine replied, because anything that involved speaking to werewolves suggested, to him, a certain level of insanity. Also, he had perhaps listened to - or heard, sometimes he tuned out - enough of Picardy's rambles about Marlowe Forfang to have absorbed the sense that Forfang was entirely mad or otherwise being paid off by Big Werewolf.

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   Reuben Crouch, Verity Swann

"Oh," Jules said, quite offended and not doing the best job of hiding it. Crazy?! She was a researcher, and she had worked very hard for a very long time to compile such rigorous findings, and then Picardy (or his insert, here, whoever this man was) went and called her crazy! When his 'research' was composed entirely of crackpot theories based on his own prejudices assumptions and they weren't even internally consistent, and of course they could not hold water next to any external information whatsoever —

"So he's the one who wants to kill all the werewolves, banish the hags, and expel the goblins from Gringotts based on nothing more than his own paranoia?" she said, hotly. "He's that one?"

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

He should have held back; the woman was visibly (or audibly) upset and none of this was helping him get Picardy's stupid books. He blinked at her, for a moment; he wasn't sure what to do here that would get him out of the bookstore quickly. But maybe it was too late for that.

"Are you friends with part-humans, or something?" Peregrine asked finally.

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"You don't have to be friends with someone to think they deserve not to be killed for no reason," she retorted. She shouldn't have said anything, and now she didn't really know how to extricate herself from this conversation, but she certainly didn't want to give away any more of her actual opinions on anything if she could avoid it.

"Picardy's books haven't come in yet," she said decisively. She did not work at the bookstore and had no idea whether or not this was true, but was hoping if she said it confidently enough he wouldn't push back on it. It conflicted directly with her pretended ignorance about his name earlier, though, so she needed to go one step further to cover herself: "The only order under P is Phillips, so it must have been delayed."

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   Peregrine Umbernauld

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

Peregrine leaned against the bookstore doorframe. "Can you check again?" he asked, because going back to the house to tell Picardy his books were not here was going to be a pain. And if Picardy really wanted these books - Peregrine could never tell; with him everything always seemed to hold the same level of frenetic urgency - then he might switch bookstores in a fit, and having to flit over to London on a regular basis sounded horrendously annoying.

"They could be under Umbernauld - that's my name."

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Well, shit. He seemed to have bought her lie, but now she was going to actually have to trot about pretending to work here in order to keep selling it. On the upside, she knew the store well enough that she could easily fake it, and none of the employees would give a second glance to her wandering into the back room in pursuit of her brother. On the other hand, every moment he stayed in the shop increased the odds that an actual employee would wander over and ask what he wanted.

On the other hand, she had his name now, which was an interesting tidbit. "Of course I'll check again," she said, assuming the tone of an employee who was polite but running slightly thin on patience. "Can you spell Umbernauld for me? With a U?"

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

For fuck's sake.

"U-m-b-e-r-n-a-u-l-d," Peregrine enunciated; he mimicked the Received Pronunciation accent to make himself sound less Scottish so that she could parse it easier.

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Umbernauld. She nodded, then left, moving towards the back room. As she walked, she considered her options. She could simply leave; he might eventually tire of waiting and do the same. On the other hand, he might grow increasingly frustrated and eventually blow up at one of the actual employees, which wouldn't have been fair to them. She could have actually looked for the books, but she was loathe to do anything that might be construed as helpful to Picardy. She could pretend to find the order, but instead just emerge with a collection of utterly useless novels. That was an amusing idea... but the fact that this man could spell meant he was probably literate, so he might notice if she brought out a book order that was patently ridiculous. Whether he would care or not was another matter, but she couldn't risk it. He'd asked her to check again instead of just accepting the books weren't in, so he was evidently more invested in this than a typical servant running errands.

No, she'd just have to stick with they're not in, but after he left perhaps she'd take the order, just to see what Picardy was up to with his 'research'...

"I'm sorry, Mr. Umbernauld, they're not in yet," she said definitively as she reemerged, sliding out from behind the counter before anyone who actually worked there could wander by, see her standing there talking to customers, and raise an eyebrow.

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

Peregrine waited and calculated how to handle this, a sort of step-by-step of 'things that Picardy might ask about.' He had to complete all the steps to avoid getting sent back here twice in one day, because it was better if he did them all now than if he had to come back.

"Well, do you know when they'll be in?" Peregrine asked, having thought on and prepared this question in the interim. He was using a different tone, a sort of half-annoyed 'can I speak to your manager' tone that he had heard Picardy use and started mimicking. (This was how the upper class operated in the world, it worked for them, Peregrine had no money but had decided to try it out on occasion. In the Umbernauld household such a tone was likely to get one punched, but - here it might work.)

"They were supposed to have arrived this morning."

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Ugh, why was he so insistent? This man was far too invested in the books to just be a typical house servant, she decided. Maybe he was a family member (but Picardy didn't really have close family members aside from his son, who was too young to fit the bill), or maybe some sort of research assistant. She was beginning to wish she had known the extent of the relationship before wading into the middle of this conversation she didn't belong in, but she supposed her mood had just been too impulsive to hesitate. She was feeling reckless and restless this morning — hence having drafted the letter in the first place, which she was now too annoyed to go show to Zach as intended.

"Hard to say. There's been some trouble with one of our suppliers," she lied. "It's caused a lot of delays. We've still got books on back-order that were meant as Christmas gifts." What could she say that would get him to leave? "I can make a note to owl when they're in, if you like?" she offered, intending to do no such thing.

(Later, she might feel a little bad about sabotaging Zachariah's business, but for the moment it barely even occurred to her).

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

Peregrine squinted at her, as if that would make the books manifest themselves. If he had to start going to London for this shit, he swore - well, there wasn't much to be done for it now. "Sure," he said, after a beat, "And what's your name? So I can be on the lookout for the note."

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Shit, why wouldn't he just leave already? She couldn't give her real name, in case he knew that the store was owned by Mr. Binns and got suspicious.

"Eliza Thwait," she supplied, pulling the last name from the spine of a nearby book so that she didn't have to think too hard about it. She was hopefully never going to see him again, so she wouldn't need to remember it. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Umbernauld." Now, please, if you would head to the door...

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules